


The Remorseful Day

by ariel2me



Series: Naerys Targaryen [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt - Queen Naerys leaves King's Landing after the nasty business with Bethany Bracken and Terrence Toyne, to visit her son and his family in Dragonstone. While there, word arrives about the attempted assassination of Aegon IV and the death of the Dragonknight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Ensanguining the skies How heavily it dies Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound Not further to be found, How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day._

_(A.   E. Housman, More Poems, XVI)_

_You’re a finished product and don’t know it. You think the world will come and change you but it never does. You’re who you are until you die._

_(John le Carré_ _, Single & Single)_

**________________________**

_Show me the path I must tread._

She lit candles for each of the Seven, as always, but her prayers were for the Crone that day.

_Guide me, wise lady. Do not let me stumble in the dark places that lie ahead._

But she was already in the dark, had been in the dark since the day she was wed to her brother. Even here, kneeling in front of the gods, in the one place she had always felt safest, traces of doubt still assailed her heart, unable to banish the fear that even the Crone’s shining light might not be enough to lead her out of this wretched, wretched darkness.

 _Doubt is good,_  her beloved septa had told her. Naerys was not certain if the High Septon would agree with that sentiment, but Septa Lyria had insisted that their love was for the Seven, not for the High Septon.  _“And where we love, we must question and we must doubt, for that love to stay true and eternal.”_

On the way out of the sept, her gaze lingered on the Stranger, an even more disquieting sight here in Dragonstone, carved as it was to resemble a beast rather than a shrouded figure. The Stranger had come for Septa Lyriawhen Naerys was four-and-ten, the year before she was wed. Naerys had been by her side, holding her hand and wiping her feverish brow the night Septa Lyria drew her last breath.

(Her own mother had died far, far away, in a place Naerys had never seen and could not even imagine.  _I should have gone to Lys to see my mother, or at least to see the place that gave her birth, where she chose to die._ But Naerys had been a child when her mother died, and even younger when Larra Rogare left court to return to Lys. She remembered very little of her mother; Aemon remembered a bit more. He told her stories and wove her tales that attempted to recreate an absent mother from shards of half-forgotten remembrances. She suspected Aemon of making up more than half the stories - for how could he not run out of stories about their mother after a while? – to make her laugh, to make her smile, but she did not mind, how could she mind after all?

“I remember even more. I knew her the longest, so I knew her best of all,” Aegon always boasted, but he never offered to share his memory of their mother with his younger siblings. Aegon was never good at sharing.

Father was …  _Father_ , silent as a tomb and hard as a stone when it came to the woman he had loved and then lost. He had been a different man once, full of laughter, zest and joy, Aunt Baela and Aunt Rhaena always maintained, but how was Naerys to know the difference? She had never known him as that other man, never caught a glimpse of her father in that other life, when he had been the Lost Prince who was found. He was lost again by the time he was known to her, as much as she could claim to have  _known_ him at all.)

The Stranger came for Terrence Toyne, the charming and comely Kingsguard knight whose face was always threatening to break into a smile. He amused the king greatly and made His Grace roar with laughter with his repository of seemingly endless teats japes; he flattered the king about the size and the potentness of the royal manhood. And all the while Ser Terrence was sticking his own treasonous manhood into a hole he had no right to poke, as Aegon had crudely put it. 

(They broke his teeth, all his teeth, when they tortured him to death on Aegon’s command. All his bones too, even to the smallest finger joints. And his manhood … fed to the dogs by Aegon’s own two hands. Aegon had told her all these in great, explicit details, drunk and stinking of wine, forcing himself into her bedchamber demanding “ _my right as your king and your brother,_ ” while three whores were spread out in his bed waiting for him in his own bedchamber.

“Let us live as brother and sister,” she had pleaded with him, years ago, after the maesters warned them that another pregnancy could end her life.

“We are the blood of the dragon, this _is_  living as brother and sister,” he had replied, pushing her towards the bed.)

The Stranger came for Bethany Bracken and her father as well, and Naerys knew she was expected to take some satisfaction in the death of the man who had once wished openly for her own death so that his older daughter could replace her as queen. But in truth she felt only pity for him, and for both his daughters, for foolishly thinking they could rule the king’s passion.

He could not rule his own passion and he could not rule himself; he certainly would not allow anyone else to do it for him.

The shrieks of laughter coming from Aegon’s Garden led Naerys to the children. She sat on a bench under the tallest pine tree, embroidering a gift for her good-daughter, a scene depicting the Water Gardens with its pale pink marble floor. She had visited the Water Gardens only once, and was entranced not so much by its beauty – although it  _was_  undeniably beautiful – but the tranquility. Even the shrieks and laughter of the children playing in the fountains and the pools faded after a while, and she had been lost in the silence, breathing in the citrusy scent of lemon and blood orange.

 _Aegon’s_  Garden … if only it had another name. It was named for a different Aegon, of course, the Conqueror himself, yet even the mere sound of that name, not to mention the constant reminder of dragons in all shapes and forms in this island, felt oppressive to Naerys.

_We are the blood of the dragon._

Dragonstone was where her son and his family were living, however, and they were a comfort to her.

And Dragonstone was not the Red Keep, not King’s Landing.

Daenerys came out from behind the bushes, her hair disheveled, her dress stained, looking as happy as Naerys had seen her in a long while. “Why did he die, my twin brother?” She had asked Naerys out of nowhere, not too long ago.

“Mother!” Daenerys called out. “We were picking cranberries,” she announced. And wild roses too, she was holding wild roses with one hand and a basket half-filled with cranberries with the other hand, Naerys saw. Her nephews Aerys and Rhaegel were with her. They did not call her aunt, though; only Daenerys, this aunt who was not much older than them. 

Daenerys gave one of the roses to Naerys. “For you, Mother. I’m going to give the rest to Mariah. She  _loves_  them.” Mariah delighted in the girl, treating Daenerys like the daughter she had wished for, the daughter she thought she was carrying during her last pregnancy, who turned out to be another boy.  

After handing the basket of cranberries to Aerys and Rhaegel and telling them to pick more, Daenerys bounded away to the castle. The boys had nodded in unison when she gave her instruction, but after she left, they only dawdled and stood there, looking around uncertainly.

Naerys called out to her grandsons, “Would you like Grandmother to tell you a story?”

Eyes wide, Aerys asked, “Is it about dragons?”

Naerys shuddered. She hid it with a smile. “No, it’s not about dragons. It’s better than any dragon. Come sit with me,” she beckoned, setting down her embroidery and opening her arms wide to welcome the boys.

The boys came to her. Rhaegel was holding a small wooden toy in his left hand, which he proudly showed to his grandmother. “Horsey!” he said. “Horsey!’ he repeated.

Aerys squinted, taking a closer look. “That’s not a horse.” With one swift motion, Aerys snatched the toy away from his younger brother. “It’s a dragon. See?”

Rhaegel had a blank, uncomprehending look on his face at first, as if he did not understand what was truly happening. Then, like a wooden dragon suddenly roaring to life, he started bawling; loud, hiccupping, heart-wrenching sobs that tore at Naerys’ heart. His hands started tearing at his hair. Aerys was so intent examining the wooden dragon he did not seem to notice his brother’s tantrum.

Taking hold of his flailing hands and kissing the top of Rhaegel’s head, Naerys tried her best to soothe the boy. Rhaegel buried his face in his grandmother’s lap, still sobbing inconsolably, but at least his hands were still now, not at risk of hurting himself. 

“Hush now. You’re a big boy,” Naerys said, her hand caressing Rhaegel’s hair. She called out to Aerys. “Rhaegel is such a sweet boy. If you ask nicely, he will share the toy, won’t he?”

Rhaegel lifted his tear-stained face from his grandmother’s lap and nodded, solemnly. Naerys held out her hand for the wooden dragon. Aerys pouted at first, putting his hands behind his back, trying to hide the toy. Naerysreached out to touch his arm, saying, gently, “Aerys, you mustn’t be greedy.”

Aerys hesitated, then sighed, and finally handed the toy to his grandmother. “Can you tell us that story now, Grandmother?”

“Long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a princess and her brother …“ she began. 

_My prince, you mustn’t be greedy._

Their nursemaid had said this to Aegon, time and time again. Aegon snatching a toy from Aemon’s hand, then quickly throwing it away when a newer, shinier toy caught his attention.  _My prince, you mustn’t be greedy._  Aegonpulling Aemon away when he was quietly playing with Naerys, scolding, “You’re a  _boy_. Why would you want to play with a stupid little girl?” But he didn’t really _want_  to play with Aemon; he was so quickly roused to anger if his younger brother bested him in anything.

_My prince, you mustn’t be greedy._

Who would tell a king that he must not be greedy?

Her father had never truly seen the truth about his firstborn, or about any of his children for that matter. The shrewd, observant man who had assessed the characters of his brother and his two nephews, who saw and understood the three kings he served as Hand with keen, discerning eyes; that man was blind when it came to his own children.

Over and over again, he had to intervene to rescue Aegon from disastrous misalliances and unwise dalliances, but time after time, he kept putting it down to Aegon’s youthful over-exuberance; a temporary aberration, not an ingrained character flaw.

Over and over again, Naerys had told him about her wish to be a septa, about her dream to devote her life to the Seven. He had listened and smiled indulgently, before finally refusing her in a tone that brooked no argument when he told her she was to wed her brother. “You don’t really want to be a septa. Why would a princess wish for that sort of life? It’s only because of your love for Septa Lyria, because she was like a mother to you. Do not mistake your love for her with your love for the Seven, Naerys.”

_You don’t know me, Father. It seems the cleverest, most reasonable explanation to you, but it only shows that you do not know you daughter at all._

Even Uncle Aegon had been of no help. Naerys had long suspected that her uncle saw and understood more about the nephew named in his honor that he had ever let on; she had even witnessed Uncle Aegon’s haunted eyes watching his brother’s firstborn with suspicion and distrust. But Uncle Aegon could not, w _ould not_ , deny Father anything, because long ago he was the boy who escaped and his little brother was the boy he left behind, and guilt cast a very long shadow, even if that debt was never mentioned by Father, not ever.

Once Uncle Aegon had given his blessing, there was no stopping the wedding. Her brother Aegon was her husband, her doom. 

He always blamed her. If he had a dozen mistresses, it was because she was cold, cold to the touch, cold in her heart, cold to her very deepest soul. “It’s like fucking the Wall,” he complained bitterly. He came to her bed the night after he sentenced Bethany to die, alternating between self-pitying sobs and furiously shouting, “Your fault. Yours! I would not have to go to these other women if you had  _satisfied_  me. If you had  _loved_ me.”

Never mind that he had his shares of women long before they were wed. Never mind that he was never anything other than cold to her, before the wedding, after the wedding, even on their wedding day; cold and heartless, cold and cruel, cold and definitely  _un_ loving. How could you love someone who treated you in that manner?

He always blamed her. She wept for her lost love, she wept for Aemon on their wedding night, during the bedding, she wept for the brother she wanted to wed; Aegon would accuse her of this over and over again, when he _knew_ full well that she was weeping because he had  _hurt_  her. With his scornful looks. With his cutting words. With his hands. With his –  

He always blamed her. If he showed more affection and preference to his bastards than to the trueborn son and daughter she had given him, it was because she had given him only weakness, only death. The dead twins, the stillborn boy who had been Daenerys’ twin. And Daeron, Daeron most of all. “Not  _my_ son. How could that be my son?” Daeron had a small frame like his mother, his shoulders rounded and hunched, his fingers always stained with ink. “I should send that weakling you gave me to Oldtown to train to be a maester. That’s all he’s fit for,” Aegon had thundered, the year Daeron turned eight. But he was thwarted when his cousin Baelor and the Prince of Dorne arranged for Daeron’s betrothal with Mariah. 

He always blamed her. If he treated her disparagingly in public, if he piled humiliation after humiliation and slights after slights on her, it was because her piety annoyed him, her gentleness grated at him, her conversation bored him to death, her – oh the list was  _endless_.

_How do you want me to be? Tell me. What do you want me to do?_

He wanted her not to be herself at all, not Naerys, the woman that she was, and there was no remedy for that, no change she could ever wrought that would satisfy him. It was as if her very existence  _offended_  him, touched a core of hatred deep inside him, and yet, he refused to let her go.

“You should have been born the oldest,” she had said to Aemon once. “You would have been a better king, a better father, a better –“

He had withdrawn his hand from her grasp, slowly and gently, but still surely. “Naerys –“ he began, then halted, then began again, eyes as mournful as the graveyard. “Naerys,” he said, “we mustn’t be greedy.” 

He had said that before. She knew the rest by heart:  _If we are, then how are we any better than him? How are we any different?_

There was never anything guilty about their love, not truly; not acted out between the sheets with flailing limbs and sweaty palms. She had loved him, yes, but then she had always loved him. She had never even considered a life with him until the life with Aegon had shown her what true misery was about. And even then …

 _Take me away from him. Take me to Lys. We’ll see the land that gave Mother birth. We’ll live as brother and sister,_ true  _brother and sister, not the Targaryen sort._

_Daeron_ _._ _They’ll say that it’s true. They’ll say that he is a bastard. He’ll lose his birthright, Baelor too. And what will happen to Daenerys? And Aerys and Rhaegel. Little Maekar in his cradle. And Mariah, who thought she was marrying a prince._

She could not do that to her son, to her daughter. To her grandchildren. To her good-daughter.

So Lys remained just a thought, only a dream beyond the mist; unspoken and undeclared even to Aemon, forever impossible, unreachable.

Her grandsons were asleep on her lap, their little heads touching.   

Daeron came out holding a letter. “Mother,” he called out to her, his tone of voice harking back to the time when he was a little boy not much older than Rhaegel, a little boy afraid of the dark, calling out for his mother.  

She took one look at her son’s tear-stained face, and she _knew_. The what, if not the who. 

 _It’s him_ , she prayed.  _Please, let it be him_.  _Let it be him. Let it be Aegon._  She had never prayed to the gods for her husband to die before. Never. Not even after everything he had done to her.

But she prayed, prayed and prayed for him to die, this time.

Because if it was not him, then it could only be one other man.

He sat beside her, her son; her son who was a thousand times the man his father could ever be, her son with his gentle heart who would have wept for the death of the father who had despised him, just as he would have wept for the death of the uncle who had loved him.

“Tell me,” she said.  _Tell me who, tell me how, tell me why, tell me everything._

 _Tell me if my life is ending, or just beginning._  

Daeron beckoned for a servant to take the boys, but Naerys shook her head. “Just tell me.”

And he told her.

You could not lose yourself in your grief, or howl with rage, with your grandsons still sleeping on your lap.

She was grateful for that.

You could not tear your hair out, or run your nails through your cheeks, with your son still sitting beside you, looking dazed and lost, needing a mother’s comfort at the same time he was desperately trying to comfort  _her_.  

She was grateful for that too. 

Even as part of her was furious with Aemon –  _let him die, you should have let him die, he is not worth it, he is not worth your life, not you, not ever you_  - the other part knew full well that Aemon was no more capable of breaking his vows to serve and protect his king than she was capable of destroying the lives of her children and grandchildren.

There came a time when people became who they were supposed to be, when they were done being made and unmade, formed and re-formed. “And then we are who we are, until the day the Stranger comes knocking at our door,” Aemon had said. 

 _How sad. How unbearably sad and disheartening_ , Naerys had thought.

Aemon had disagreed. “It’s not disheartening. It’s reassuring. That’s your triumph over Aegon, Naerys, that you had not allowed him to change you, to turn you away from your gods, or to turn you bitter, or grasping, or cruel.” His mockery, his slight, his abuse, his humiliation; through all that, she had endured.

But she had not been looking to triumph over Aegon, or over anyone else. She had only been looking to live her life, peaceably.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a short epilogue.

Naerys did not weep, as she watched Aemon’s body being consigned to the flames. She shed not a single drop of tear, as she stood erect and motionless, flanked by her son and her gooddaughter on either side, resolutely averting her gaze from the man she blamed for Aemon’s death more than she blamed the Toyne brothers.

Countless eyes were watching her, waiting for her tears to fall, waiting for her sobs to be heard. One pair of eyes in particular had been stalking her all morning, the puffy, reddish eyes of her husband.

_Who are you really crying for, Aegon? Your dead brother, or yourself?_

Naerys would not weep, though. She was staying faithful to the vow she and Aemon had sworn to one another, to that oath they had taken promising that whoever died first, the other one would not allow his or her tears to be used against Daeron, to be used to cast doubt about his rightful inheritance, the way Aemon’s tears on Naerys’ wedding day – a brother’s tears mourning the fate of a beloved sister about to enter into an unwished-for marriage – had been deliberately miscast and misconstrued by Aegon as the tears of a lover mourning for his lost love.

_Promise me, Aemon._

_I promise._

_Promise me on our mother’s name._

She had extracted that promise from him, and had promised the same in return, believing with all her heart that she would not be the one left behind to fulfill it, for surely _Aemon_ , strong, sturdy Aemon would be the one to outlive her for many, many years.

But he had left her behind to fulfill their promise.

She loved him as a brother, not a lover, but why should that be any less of a great and enduring love? Why should her grief and her sorrow counted for any less than if they had truly came together as lovers?

No lover had ever offered his arm to be her pillow, on the dark nights when she cried and yearned for their lost and absent mother, and their equally lost yet still present father. No lover had ever spiritedly argued and debated with her about the nature of the gods, about how the Seven could be one and seven at the same time.

No lover had ever held her hand, firmly, when they were children running and hiding from the explosion of Father’s sudden fury, from his moods that could swing from indulgent to severe in the blink of an eye. _Father has scars too_ , Aemon had said, _even if Father’s scars are not as visible as Aunt Baela’s burns or Uncle Aegon’s melancholy._

Naerys turned to look at her son, whose hand was grasping hers.

“He was not my father, but he was the only true father I ever knew,” Daeron whispered.

He was not her lover, but until the birth of her children, he was the only true love she had ever known.


End file.
